


Ill-Starred

by DastardlyDevorak (Jeepers_Creepers)



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Follows the plot but also has a bunch of other stuff going on, Memory Loss, Multi, Other, Romance, Secrets, Slow Burn, canon divergent to spice things up, unlucky protag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-01-30 16:44:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12657450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeepers_Creepers/pseuds/DastardlyDevorak
Summary: As a magician’s apprentice, Oleander has seen the arcana’s whispers come true time and time again. Her master even insists she is gifted at the art of prediction, but that is the last thing she desires. When a moonless night ushers in the sudden departure of Asra and the arrival of two unwanted guests, Oleander realizes she will have to face her fate alone for the first time since she can remember.If she can find the truth behind the murder and make it out of the haunted palace alive, she may just be able to uncover the secrets of her own past and save those she has come to care about in the process.But she has to conquer the wiles of fate first.





	1. The High Priestess

 

Oleander watched the fortune teller carefully, eyes following the practiced movements of his hands as he prepared their tea. Master Asra was in one of his somber, cryptic moods. Her least favorite.

He had spoken very little since dawn, only occasionally offering up pained, soft smiles to dampen her concern. She often wondered if they did not also serve to soothe his own heart. There was no mystery to ponder today, however. As he sat a mug of tea before her, his face said all she needed to know. He was leaving. Again.

She thanked him and took her first sip, wondering what the leaves would tell them this time. Although not as accurate as tarot, Asra always shared a cup of tea with her before he left on one of his long journeys. It was one of his many mysteries Oleander was rather fond of.

The tea was strong and bitter, a fresh taste of mint in it. Her favorite. He dared meeting her steady emerald gaze and the tension knotting her shoulders eased. It was hard to curse her master for leaving her to mope around an empty shop when he himself looked so sobered at the prospect.

“I suppose you won't tell me where you’re going?” she asked, if only to fulfill her role in the play. If she didn't ask, he wouldn't get to not answer.

A faint smile befell his lips at her question, cheshire and sweet. “Far away,” he said simply.

“With the frequency of your visits I’m beginning to wonder if it isn't a summer home.”

Asra laughed softly, leaning back and sipping on his heavily sugared brew. “Nowhere else could ever compare.”

Asra was perplexing and occasionally distant, certainly, but he didn't have the heart to be disingenuous. The joke had been purely in jest, but part of Oleander’s heart did warm to see his eyes wander around the shop so lovingly. It was filled to the brim with oddities, elixirs, incense, and draped in warm tapestries. It was humble, but it was home.

“I have something for you while I'm gone,” he said, tearing himself from his musings. She knew what he had gifted her before she even opened it—Asra’s magic radiated off of the deck, eagerly twisting and curling at her fingers. His tarot.

“You think I'm ready?”

He ran a hand through his woolly hair and his eyes softened. “I cannot tell you that.”

“Maybe we should ask the deck?” she offered, drawing a broad grin from her master.

They finished their tea and the apprentice prepared, shuffling the deck as Asra watched intently. She focused on his energy, allowing her hands to be led as she spread out the cards before them. The cool brush of scales against her ankle made her smile: Faust, always arriving at the right time.

It was a hello in snake, and their fine purple friend joined them at the table, curling over Asra’s shoulders like a scarf. She turned over a card, staring back into the owlish eyes of the High Priestess. “What is she saying to you?” Her master asked curiously.

The tarot started whispering in the back of her mind, things that weren't words and yet clearly spoke. “You’ve forsaken her.”

Asra leaned closer, violet eyes widening. “I have?”

Oleander didn't want to cast such a dire judgement for him but the words spilled past her lips with ease. “Yes. You’ve pushed her away, and buried her voice. She calls out to you, but you won't listen.” An anxious Faust slithered down his chest and Oleander’s heart fluttered like a rabbit’s.

It was bad, whatever this was. Something long-lived and haunting. Something she wished Asra wouldn't have to face alone.

As always, he took her reading seriously, nodding thoughtfully and appearing downcast. If he truly knew to whom the cards were referring, it was not an answer he was forthcoming with.

It never added up in her mind how Asra as she knew him could carry such clouds over him. It made her feel foolish, but he wouldn't _forsake_ anyone...would he? Oleander dropped her gaze back to the wise face of the Priestess, the small gap between them suddenly feeling like a gaping void. There were so many things about her master she didn't know.

The cards didn't speak any more—they didn't have to. The weight left in her chest was enough.

When she looked up, Asra was taking his necklace off, the bright blue stone dangling off of a long, leather cord. He had worn it for as long as she had known him.

“You should have this, too,” he said, leaning forward to slip it around her neck. His hands were gentle and deft, and his cheeks tinted when he lifted up her hair to place it correctly.

“Master-”

He flushed a deeper red, pulling away with an air of embarrassment. “You still call me that...” He was always coy about his title, but Oleander never could understand why. Sure, he had said many times how “powerful” and “talented” she was, but she had learned everything under his tutelage. Had he not _earned_ it?

“Master **,** are you sure you want me to have it?”

Her stubbornness amused him despite the color in his cheeks, and he lightly lifted the stone between his fingers. “Of course. That is why it's a _gift,_ Oleander.”

She imprinted the memory of his smile into her mind for all the days she wouldn't get the luxury. The small dimple he had on one cheek, the bright pink of his favorite wrap, the artful mess of his white hair, his gold earrings that glimmered in the sunlight, and his eyes that never failed to sparkle when he greeted her. All would be missed.

“Just think of it as an apology for killing all of the plants,” he added, turning cheeky.

It was the apprentice’s turn to blush. She loved their plants, but whenever Asra left on one of his journeys all of the shop’s greenery wilted without fail. Almost as if the whole house mourned his loss. Unskilled in both plant magic _and_ upkeep, it was a hopeless endeavor Oleander attempted over and over to disastrous results.

In fact, it seemed the more she focused her energy on it, the crispier the leaves became. Asra’s eyes would shine with amusement as he inspected the brittle plants, joking about her bad luck as a frond crumbled to pieces in his hand.

It was far less amusing when it was a bag of flour accidentally dropping on her in the market or one of her many misadventures that ended with almost being impaled, but the plants dying never bothered Asra. It only ever coaxed a half-smile from him before he’d breeze onto other topics, unfettered, asking if she missed him. Of all the ways the stars turned against her, it really was only an unfortunate inconvenience. By the time dawn broke the next morning, all of the plants would look as though he hadn't been gone a day.

Master Asra never failed to impress her.

Although undoubtedly kind, Asra’s gift did little to settle her nerves. Gifts were never good, and outside the warmth of the shop the night was still and dark. The tarot, the necklace..? She dreaded to think of how long he would be gone and where he would be going. “Please be careful.”

It always felt like it wasn't her place to stop him; he owed her nothing and to challenge someone like Asra who had showed her nothing but kindness would be unfair...but she could ask of him that one request.

Asra seemed particularly softened by it, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. One last chance to feel his familiar presence before it was gone. He was always so warm.

Before he could say anything a sharp knocking at the door made them both jump and move away, that familiar flush crawling up Asra’s cheeks. The moment was over.

“Did you forget to put out the lantern again?” he asked faux-chidingly and laughed, tutting like the stern teacher they both knew he could never be. He rose and shouldered his bag. “It's just as well. I can't stay any longer.”

He looked wistful and vaguely saddened again, and Oleander almost asked him to stay. It was silly and selfish—whatever Asra needed to do was important and she didn't want to make his departure any harder than it always was.

So she bit her tongue and stood too, taking his hat and carefully angling it on his head and throwing a shawl around his shoulders to fight off the cold. Faust gave her hand a goodbye sniff and she forced a smile for him, bracing for the loneliness that lay ahead.

“Take care of yourself, Oleander.” His eyes lingered on hers, bright and yet holding their usual clouds. He had something else to say, but left her with another somber smile instead. “Until we meet again.”

All it took was the silent brushing aside of curtains and he was gone. Just how long it would be until they met again, Oleander wasn't sure even the cards knew.

Another sharp round of knocking on the door jolted her into action and she headed towards the front of the shop. It was a drunken local, surely, coming for a remedy to nurse the throbbing in their temples. Without meaning to she had gained quite a reputation for that kind of magic and she couldn't say she was particularly proud of it.

Asra always insisted it was because of her kind nature, but truthfully she viewed it as more of a duty than anything else. If a neighbor came to her for help and she had the power to ease their pain, what magician would say no? Evidently most of them.

She didn't pull back the argyle curtains and peer outside like usual, opting instead to greet the customer directly. The shop’s light had long been snuffed, despite Asra’s teasing. Swinging the heavy door open, she prepared to scold her guest for the late hour.

The words died on her lips when she saw the Countess on her step.


	2. The Magician

 

“Forgive me for the hour, but I will not suffer through another sleepless night.”

The Countess brushed her way past Oleander, unwinding a fine silken headdress from her neck in much the same way Asra often had to do with Faust. Funnily enough, the witch did not recall inviting her in.

She was a daunting figure, dazzling red eyes as fierce as a bird of prey’s, but Oleander refused to be bothered. “Countess Nadia, what could you be all the way out here for?” It didn't sit right, the sudden departure of her master followed by a visit from the Countess. It felt like trouble. Serious trouble.

She creaked the door closed and examined her carefully, considering the small possibility in which fate was not about to barrel down upon her like an ox-led cart. Her chances were not good.

“Please, you must read the cards for me. It has to be you.” Her wording gave Oleander pause. “Your reputation precedes you,” she insisted, stepping even closer.

The witch had a moment to blink owlishly to herself. Reputation?

“You must have me confused with Master Asra. He isn't here.” Against Nadia, that did not have the note of finality she hoped it would. If anything, she seemed to take her words as a challenge.

“The name this city whispers isn't Asra. You _are_ the witch Oleander, or am I mistaken?” Oleander matched her cutting gaze and cringed internally, seeing an ox cart in her future.

Her answer was stronger than she expected. “I am.”

A small smile twisted the Countess’ lips and she nodded firmly. The intensity faded. “Then I have come to the right place.”

Feeling akin to a finch with a cat in it's cage, Oleander led Nadia to the table in the back, sitting across from her in the flickering light of the lanterns and holding Asra’s deck protectively in her lap.

“I have a proposition, magician. Will you hear it?” Oleander nodded, a lump forming in her throat. “Not very talkative, are you? Nervous?” She asked coquettishly, a quirk of her lips revealing her amusement. “You needn’t be. I require very little of you.”

Nadia was friendly for a Countess—unlike most nobles, even—but the exacting way her eyes swept around the small shop set Oleander’s teeth on edge. It was nothing like the sweet, nostalgic dawdle of Asra’s gaze.

“To be my guest at the palace for a short while is all I ask.”

The witch’s breath caught in her throat. To step foot on forbidden grounds, roaming the halls of the mysterious gilded dungeon the Countess called home was admittedly more than she expected. Oleander couldn't remember the days Asra spoke of fondly, when guests entered the shimmering palace freely and danced and feasted to their hearts’ content.

Instead, the worried talk of neighbors filled her mind—talk of murder and corruption and brutal guards, all in hushed tones over cooling bread and long forgotten parcels. The palace was a glorious structure that glimmered in the night unlike anything Vesuvia had ever seen and yet it only conjured images of moths being lured into flame.

“You will be afforded every luxury, of course.”

Oleander frowned at the beautiful woman. Luxury was not what she desired, nor was it enough to quell the unease in her chest. Nadia’s offer _could_ supply her something Asra could never give, however.

_Independence._

The mere idea was exhilarating and terrifying. It was rare she was ever out from under her master’s wing, and the distinct ache of loss every time he ventured off on his own only further disturbed her. It was bore from a fruit of kindness and concern on his part, but Oleander knew her dependence was long past necessary.

It was something that needed to be fixed, and only she could enact such a change. If it meant being a moth? So be it.

Besides, whatever had brought the Countess to her was dire. It was not often rulers showed up on magicians’ porches in the dead of night to make requests. It was not often rulers even _made requests._ Looking past her proud posture and unflinching presence revealed the true need that haunted Nadia’s eyes. Even the all powerful needed help, and it was her turn to give and not take.

So Oleander accepted the proposal, ignoring the feeling of danger crawling it's way up her spine. If she could help then she had no reason to refuse except cowardice, and that was not what would carve her into the person she wanted to be  _or_ honor the time and care Asra put into helping her onto her feet again.

Nadia released a deep breath, leaning back with a relieved smile. “You have chosen wisely, magician. I will alert the guards to expect you tomorrow. For tonight, however…” Her meaning was clear, and Oleander began to shuffle the deck on the table, shaking off her nerves to set her mind right for the reading.

Pleased, the Countess closed her eyes.

It allowed the witch a brief reprieve from her intense gaze, and Oleander’s eyes roamed along her ruler with unbridled curiosity. In the dim light her golden jewelry glinted like fire, immaculate green stones inlaid in her rings and hair jewelry. It made her own golden earrings plain in comparison and yet it was the least striking thing about the Countess.

Up close, she was more gorgeous than any woman Oleander could remember. She was elegant and refined in not only her mannerisms but her appearance—slim, graceful shoulders sloped down to a gracious bust and an hourglass figure, lean and trim but not... _harsh._ Everything about her was sleek. Artfully angled cheekbones and full, dark lips were the exact picture of royalty, saying nothing of the luxurious hair that pooled to her waist.

As she focused on the Countess, Asra’s deck crackled uncomfortably in her fingers. It was nothing she had ever felt before, but the arcana’s message was clear. Danger. Worry. Fire. Ash **.** _A warning._

The cards answered Nadia’s presence quickly, a card striking Oleander like lightning. Fighting past the chill crawling up her spine, she set her hand on the outlier. She could only hope it did not spell disaster for the Countess.

With a practiced hand that remained unshaken, the fortune teller revealed it. She breathed a sigh of relief. “The Magician.”

The Countess reopened her eyes and huffed in amusement, seemingly oblivious to the miasma clinging to her. “How appropriate. What does it hold for me?” The card’s whisperings grew louder, crowding out any other considerations.

She had a plan, one long and complex in nature. Nadia confirmed this. Was now the time to act?...Yes. Undoubtedly. But—“That's all I needed to hear. Thank you, magician.” The Countess stood swiftly, determination replacing the anxiety in her eyes. “You may not appear as you did in my dream, but you may yet be what I have been searching for.”

Already starting the process of winding her scarf again, the Countess was clearly taking her leave. Oleander couldn't decide if that was a compliment or a back-handed insult, much less what it meant.

If it were Asra, Oleander would have had the presence of mind to ask. But it wasn't. Master Asra and the Countess were nothing alike, and that was why she—despite a desire to help—couldn't wait until the Countess’ eyes stopped surveying her and her shop.

“Pleasant dreams.” The miasma clinging to Nadia angrily swirled and sparked as she got close, nipping at Oleander and Asra’s magic like an cocksure pup. It was weak, but with the chill it set in the air there was no telling what it could do. The hair on the back of her neck prickled.

“Sweet dreams.”

Oleander bit her tongue to stop the flood of words from tumbling out of her mouth one after the other, crossing her arms over her chest. There was nothing that further disturbing the Countess’ sleep could do. She would have to get rid of what haunted her first.


	3. The Hanged Man

 

Leaned against the door and watching the Countess disappear in the mist that choked the street at night, Oleander found herself wishing for Asra.

The dark clouds the Countess had brought with her still prickled at her skin, dancing wickedly around her magic and feeding off the unease that hung in the air. The energy curled around her legs like a starving dog, mocking and yet desperate. She steeled herself, remembering the awe-inspiring might of the Arcana. An insolent welp should be nothing compared to the stars...right?

Besides, she didn't need Asra _or_ the tarot. Most people got by without grovelling at the altar of fate and she had her own wits about her, didn't she? She squared her shoulders, leaving the chill of the night behind her. Whinging about everything simply wouldn't do.

She wasn't about to be scared out of her own shop, spirits or stars be damned.

Master Asra was talented at many things, but organization was not one of them. No matter how many times she explained the arcane shelving system the shop employed, her master was never the kind to be too flustered with memorizing it. The day to day like that—money, time management, other people’s opinions—all meant astoundingly little to the magician. It was at once incredibly impressive and endlessly irritating.

It was all charming and sweet when he offered up a sheepish shrug and chipperly helped her look, not so much so when it was dark, she was alone, and had already banged her head on just about every drawer in the shop.

Ratting through them one by one and gingerly rubbing the sore spot on her head, the apprentice finally found what she was looking for. Incense. Slid on top of a bag of black salt along with a note in an all too familiar looping scrawl, _‘Sorry, forgot where this goes!’_

Oleander smiled despite herself, shaking her head and slipping the paper into her shawl for safekeeping. It made her feel silly, but it's presence over her heart _did_ make her feel a little less alone. Life without Asra was shamefully isolated.

Returning her focus to the task at hand, Oleander unbound the twine holding the bundle together, placing the excess in it's proper place above the spring flowers and headache remedies. It was perfect for clearing any negative energy the Countess’ visit had left behind and was a strong, specially blended mix of her own devising.

“Strange hours for a shop to keep.”

Oleander started, eyes immediately fixing on the masked figure loitering on her doorstep. The tension ebbed from her shoulders as soon as she noticed the lack of malefic energy from him.

“Even stranger hours for a visit,” she replied, focusing magic in her hand. She conjured a flame on her finger just long enough to light the leaves, staring at the visitor curiously.

“Now, sources tell me this is the witch’s lair. So who might _you_ be?”

Oleander huffed, setting the incense on it's dish. The leafy scent of rosemary was already potent. “Me? No one of consequence.”

He stepped further inside, and for the first time the mask was clearly visible. Iridescent red eyes, a long, stitched beak...a plague doctor—or at least someone with the mask of one.

“I’d prefer not to ask again.”

Ignoring preternatural feelings of death and doom Oleander wasn't easily shaken, and had some making up to do for how jumpy she had been around the Countess. Whoever it was making the house call had chosen the wrong day.

“ _I’d_ prefer not to be vaguely threatened in my own shop, but life does have it's disappointments. Who are _you_?”

Pushing her luck just to prove she could again—Asra occasionally scolded her for such daring. For once, however, the stars were on her side. The man...laughed? Although oddly muffled by the heavy mask, it was an unmistakable sound.

“If it will get you to talk, then so be it.” The uncomfortable sound of leather scraping across skin accompanied the beak’s removal and dramatic toss to the floor. A long, sharp face loomed over her with the sanguine hair and eye patch to match. Doctor Jules was unmistakable. And the last person she expected in her shop.

Or at least he would have been, if the Countess hadn’t come in with the spectre of death on her shoulder.

A mirthless smile twisted his lips. “You _do_ recognize me. Shock. Horror. I can see it.”

Oleander’s pulse did, admittedly, skip a beat or two, but who was she to say what was true about the Count’s death? The fact she had both the Countess and the infamously hounded doctor on her step on the same night was certainly fortuitous, but it said nothing as to who was guilty and who wasn't. Anything else was market gossip.

Remaining nonchalant, she stepped behind the counter _just_ in case the talk was true. The jar of wormroot glimmering within reach allowed her to breath easy. When steeped for twenty four hours with lavender and amethyst, the chalky golden dust was used in countless potions. When raw, it repulsed the body in every sense of the word. One whiff and it brought on uncontrollable coughing, sneezing, and itching. Not deadly, but enough to beat a hasty retreat if need be.

“You seem to paint with broad strokes, Doctor Jules. Shock is fair, but horror? Unless you're of the eldritch variety I can't say I have any horror left to give.” She flashed her best matter-of-fact smile.

“Eldritch, hm?” he purred, pulling up a stool and leering across the counter at her. He pretended to consider it. “Not something I've been accused of... _yet_.” He grinned, flashing teeth.

That close the slate gray of his eye twinkled, but it was just a bit too cold. He was playing on the edge of flirtatious and intimidating. “Now tell me. Where's the witch?”

His appealing smile did nothing. Oleander would nail her own coffin shut before she sold out her master. “Sorry, doctor. I'm the only witch here, and I'm afraid it's long past my bedtime.”

She stood only to be met by the harsh sound of a stool quickly scraping the floorboards. Rising from his own seat, Doctor Jules loomed a whole head taller than her. Far taller than he had any right to be. “Shame,” he mused. “Well, my silver-tongued shopkeep, if you won't tell me where he is…”

His devilish tone faded as he plunked his elbows on the counter and batted his eyelashes. “Won't you at least tell my fortune?”

Now _that_ was a surprise.

Oleander was wise enough to know she had pushed her luck as far as it would go. There would be no arguing with the universe, no refusal of this proposal. The snares of fate were already entangling her and she didn't fancy the end of her date with the doctor involving any sharp instruments. Julian held her eyes and waited, seemingly amused by her and her obstinance.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she deadpanned, crossing her arms indignantly. There was nothing worse than being backed into a corner, but she supposed it wasn't the doctor’s fault, either. Only the heartless machinations of fate.

“Oh, but it gets you _everywhere_.”

Oleander sighed. She was far too soft—it was hard to refuse a man so charming. Or dangerous. “Follow me,” she relented, heading towards the back room and holding open the satin curtains for him on instinct. His eye glinted with delight at the common courtesy.

Jules towered over her, that wolfish grin appearing again as he held it for her instead, gesturing smoothly ahead. “Ladies first.”

The witch humored him, nodding a thanks and taking the cards from earlier, swiping away Nadia’s Magician before the good doctor could see. If she got the same result now...her lips twitched at the prospect. Fate had a funny way of taunting her. Her city’s widow on a manhunt, followed shortly thereafter by the man being hunted. Their only connecting thread of fate was a lowly magician’s apprentice, and an ill-starred one at that. She could think of no odder quirk of fate.

Oleander had wanted to shield the shop—her _home_ —from the Countess’ level scrutiny, defending it's piles upon piles of books stashed wherever they could fit, the small spiderweb cracks in the wallpaper, the _actual_ spider webs…but Doctor Jules? He idly slung one leg over the other, admiring the tapestries with an uncritical eye.

“Lovely decor, shopkeep. Reminds me of the good old days. Your eye for color is impeccable—really gives the place some ambiance.” The grin he gave felt like a real one, and Oleander dropped her eyes to the arcana as her cheeks colored.

No one but Asra had ever complimented the shop and all the work she did for it, dragging furniture around and fending off rats and knocking down cobwebs (as high as she could reach, at least.) She had checked the district market for three weeks until she found the perfect pillows to match the dark wine curtains and all of the noblemen used them like snot rags.

“Thank you,” she replied, unhappy with how meek it was. As if the ruddiness in her face hadn't already given her away. It was just odd, really, receiving a compliment from someone who wasn't...well, _Asra._ How embarrassing.

Still, the doctor seemed satisfied and only raised a teasing eyebrow, clearly surprised. He settled into comfortable silence, knitting his hands together and limiting his whole world to her. “No need to be shy, go on. I'm curious to see if you have the witch’s skill,” he said, batting his hand reassuringly.

The way Jules referenced her master left a bitter taste in her mouth, but the precious mood wasn't something easily reclaimed if sullied. She worked up the courage to return his examining gaze as she shuffled the arcana, an odd silence befalling the deck. The doctor smirked in return.

They were testing the waters, circling each other in an unsure waltz of the said and unsaid.

With the cards out on the table again, Doctor Jules’ demeanor changed. He swept loose hair away from his face, languid posture becoming rigid and intent. Oleander let everything but him slip away, focusing on his aura.

It was tarnished, with a restlessness and sharp undercurrent that contrasted Asra’s hazy sadness. Although she didn't do it often, reading her master’s tarot always gave her the impression of a melancholy fog settled around him, warm in the middle but not strong enough to fill all the edges. The doctor was a river, still tumultously running underneath a layer of ice. _Running..._

She paused, meeting his eye. “Dr. Jules…”

He scoffed. “Julian, please. I haven't heard that name in years.”

 _Julian_..? The image of a river was eclipsed in her mind by the arcana urging her to choose, and Oleander’s hand moved almost on it’s own.

He eagerly followed the glint of her rings as she revealed the face of Death, a grim visage that opened the door of change to even the most disastrous of degrees.

The river froze.

The card did not speak to her, letting the silence suffocate instead. Blood pounded in her ears, but the fugitive was not as impressed. “ _Death?_ You've got to be joking.” Julian barked with laughter, harsh and genuine in the most macabre of ways, pulling Oleander out of the card’s sickening aura.

“Death cast her gaze on this wretch and turned away.” He rose, matching the fortune teller’s serious gaze with an impetuous eye. “She has no interest in an abomination like me.”

With disdainful dramatics the like of a stage performer, he strode through the curtains again but paused at the last moment, gloved hand brushing aside plum fabric. He was holding it open for her. A ruddy blush crawled up his pale neck when she thanked him and his powerful exit withered just like the plants.

He collected his mask from the floor, crossing his arms and addressing her once more with an impersonal tone. “You've been hospitable, so I'll let you in on a secret. Your witch friend will be back for you. He has taught you his secrets, and I imagine he’s fond of you.” A cheerless smile twisted his lips.

“When he does return, seek me out. For your own sake. That _creature_ is far more dangerous than you know, shopkeep. You should leave before it's too late.”

 _Creature?_ The doctor had far more nerve than Oleander appreciated. She stepped close, nails biting into her palms. “Doctor, Master Asra is not the one accused of murder.”

Instead of rising to meet her the tension eased out of Julian’s shoulders and he laughed again, long fingers grazing over his temple. “Ah, you have a point, shopkeep.” He sighed. “I can't be surprised you want to defend your master, no matter who it is. Loyalty _is_ such a virtue.”

The witch regretted the barb of her words. The downtrodden curve of his shoulders at the mere mention of it—like an actual weight rested on his spine—revealed him just as much as the Countess’ tempered desperation. If the doctor was indeed guilty...it was not something he relished in.

He gave a farewell swoosh of his cape and she stopped him, the cool slip of a leather glove foreign to her fingertips. “Julian,” she bit her lip, the arcana’s prediction the first thing coming to her mind. “You’re on the precipice of change. Don't let guilt be your ruin.”

The man everyone called a murderer looked sheepish, his cheeks reddening and surprise seeming to tie his tongue.

After a moment of lost composure he offered her a thespian bow, appearing much like the affable doctor the residents of the city praised in hushed tones. And nothing like the man the palace guards were hunting.

"Thank you, shopkeep, but my time has already passed. Remember my offer.” With the first smile that reached his eyes, Julian made his artful exit into the dreary night. Oleander knew it would not be the last time.


	4. The Queen of Cups

 

 

 

 

 

The morning had started out as usual. A little early, perhaps, as the birds were just beginning to chatter and she had to work in the light of lanterns, but early was always preferable to late.

By the time the sun crested over Vesuvia a kettle warmed over the fire and Oleander had nothing to do other than sit by the window and watch the city come to life. It was amazing, really, how quickly the streets turned from hollow lines of abandoned stalls into the epicenter of the district’s life.

She had dressed and packed already and yet something was missing, although it's exact nature evaded her. It must have been tucked away far into Vesuvia’s labrinythine streets, nestled in one of the city’s corners or commuting along the sleepy roads. Something she knew and yet could not name...the feeling was far too common.

Oleander’s attention strayed from the maze of the streets below to the birds that soared beyond the confines of her cozy home, travelers free to while away the hours anywhere they pleased. They never feared the change of the wind, much less journeying alone. A certain curly-haired magician with a sparkle in his eye flashed in her mind. The smile that she momentarily welcomed faded into a frustrated sigh. It would be impossible to get out from under Master Asra's skirt if all she did was sit and daydream about him.

Outside, the rapid beating of wings announced the early riser of the day. With the tapping of a beak on glass, Oleander didn't have to look over to see who it was. Marcos cooed and preened, perching his sleek white body on the sill with pride. Patience was not the dove's strong suit. Two more doves arriving meant it was still too early to head to the palace.

Usually the days after Master Asra left were uneventful, filled with bird feeding, restocking, and practicing magic from tomes that made the old counter groan with their weight. Leaving him to come home to an empty shop was unfortunate, and out of all the days to be absent it _had_ to be when she was summoned to meet with the Countess? It had to mean something, she supposed.

Fortunately, being alone never seemed to bother him as much as it did her. Ironically, Oleander was alone in that, too.

The doves cooed as their morning snack peppered across the rooftop, chasing after it and leading Oleander's gaze out over the city with them. She laid her head on the table, closing her eyes. The billowing sails of docked ships and the odd, winding streets of Vesuvia called to her, but if it was not somewhere Asra was her heart feared leading her feet astray.

It was easy to be carried along by her first memories—simpler times, where he led her by the wrist and chatted like a songbird himself, his dimples ever-present as he smiled and told her only about pretty things. Magic, how it dazzled and healed. The woods and their treasure; poppies, lavender, bushy-tailed foxes and rivers as clear as glass. All as vivid as if it all happened yesterday.

She had dictated every word, every laugh, every discovery and wonder of those days and pored over them night after night. All to ensure she wouldn't forget. Not again.

The words had long ago etched themselves into her mind, and they settled her heart to the point of drowsiness.  _'Asra and I collected dogwood bark today. He says it's good for burns and it has been a fortnight since...'_

For just a moment, she found herself dipping her hand into ice cold water and seeing fantastic swirls of color, iridescent and so beautiful it took the air from her chest. She was remembering. Something small. Something important.

A searing pain tore her away, replacing the vibrance with dull whiteness, hot and numb. She groaned, burying her head in her arms and suffering the consequences. It was maddening, catching glimpses of the past that so eluded her. What she wouldn't endure just to see that color again. Eventually the throbbing settled, her heartbeat slowing again to a cathartic rhythm...

When she opened her eyes again she was farther from home than she had ever imagined. Harsh winds whipped at her clothes, rushing under dark clouds that were only outmatched by the obsidian road that lay ahead. It was cold, an endless sea of red—the same coarse sand that stung her skin. Asra stood beside her, shimmering eyes solemn and mouth hidden by the scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. The same outfit he had left in.

“Aren’t you cold?” She had nothing to give him and yet that was still the first question she asked.

Master Asra turned to her and the tension seemed to ebb out of him. He looked haggard, but his tone betrayed none of it. “No colder than you are, I imagine,” he replied, pulling his scarf down so she could see how the corners of his lips turned up. The twinkle was back in his eyes, but it was strained. He didn't want to be there, either.

“Where are we?”

He sighed, staring out where a sliver of the sky showed, a green just as unsettling as the grey of the clouds and the rust colored sand. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “You follow me to the most perplexing of places.” It wasn't a condemnation, just...curious. It also wasn't an answer, but that was hardly surprising.

“I dare not tell you. If I did, you would have to promise never to take this path…” He dropped his gaze, unable to meet hers any longer. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “And even I am not such a hypocrite as that.”

Oleander reached out, brushing her fingers along the cool curve of his cheek. This wasn't a memory. Asra was too real. She could reminisce a thousand times and the memory of his smile would still pale in comparison to the real thing. He seemed content to lean into her touch, at peace if only for the moment. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he missed her just as much as she missed him...His eyes fluttered closed and the fog dissipated at her touch. “You're so hard on yourself, master. I wouldn't be where I am now without you.”

Asra recoiled as if he had been burned. He was out of her reach again—at a lonely, respectful distance. A distance for master and student. A distance that belied the way they happily lived like sardines, with most of their waking hours whiled away in tandem and their nights nestled together for warmth. It only worsened the ache in her chest.

Oleander sighed, meeting his apologetic eyes. Her master had a talent for looking like a kicked puppy. It seemed the stars wanted them to dance in perpetuity, the same steps a thousand times over and wounding all the same. The stars...It got her thinking. Her mind snapped back to the colors of the past, but Asra was saying something about a choice and two paths and it was the same cryptic answers he always gave before he reached out and touched her and she was gone again.

She awoke with a start, the roof empty and gulls wheeling lazy circles over the city now cast in the full radiance of the sun. The chance to ask her master had passed. She chewed her lip, ill at ease. The time for those things—the hard truths they chose to ignore—would surely have to draw to a close soon. As sure as the birds came to roost.

 

**II**

 

Under the canopies of the market the air was much crisper, dragging lazily through the stalls and stirring up eddies of leaves. The water seemed to run swifter than usual, adding another layer to the market’s symphony of noise. The art of hawking wares, the jingle of coin, the beating of rugs and vivid babble of talk was all soothing to Oleander. As familiar as  _anything_  could be to a woman who’s first memory was the striking face of a white-haired tarot reader.

With Asra gone she spent a fair amount of time with the district merchants, asking about their crafts and learning a lot about them in turn. As such, the new stall huddled in a pocket of sunlight caught her eye immediately. New merchants were rare, much less ones with such intriguing items on display. Swathed in blue fabric, the booth's eclectic offerings ranged from sparkling jewels to a row of ornate glass vases of varying size and a full rainbow of color.

A small battered case sat on one end, a wooden bow propped beside it. Oleander stepped towards the booth, fighting past the crowd and the fog in her mind to recall why it was familiar. There was a thread there, something that spoke to who she used to be. The Oleander she fought so hard and suffered so much to find.

“Ah, you're just on time!” She paused, Bruno’s booming voice calling to her. The baker was covered in flour and waving her over. _Breakfast, that's right. I'm going to the palace today…_  She adjusted the bag on her shoulder, turning away from the mysterious trinkets. Now wasn't the day to get caught up in new fancies. Even if they were old ones.

She smiled and sat at the baker’s rickety table, digging coin for her bread out of her bag. “Morning. Keeping warm, I hope?”

Bruno shrugged, laughing. “You know how it is—I'm the only one out here sweating like the palace guards just came ‘round.”

He was a hearty man, tall and with the physique of someone who enjoyed his own food. The table gave a shaky groan when he rested against it. “Asra taken off without you again, huh? It's rare you two aren't attached at the hip.” Oleander looked at her hands, the sting of embarrassment curling her lips into a sheepish grimace. It was easy to forget how transparent she was about her master.

“Ahh, ignore me and my mouth,” he said, pulling the fresh loaves out of the oven and wrapping up her rosemary loaf in paper. She handed him her coin—half of which he rejected as always—and he offered a sympathetic smile. “He always finds his way back, doesn't he?”

Oleander nodded, thanking the giant of a man. “Is Safiya at home today?” she asked, unwrapping the steaming paper and reveling in the bread’s warmth. Bruno nodded, talking about how his wife had dug out all of her dresses from when she was pregnant with Harth, who was now as tall as his father and hauling flower and grain for his parents.

The first sign of trouble was the vase crashing to the ground. The sound sent every vendor's teeth on edge, and the market seemed to stop moving all together, all eyes on the newest booth. Bruno motioned for Oleander to slip behind his stand.

“Where are your dues?” The coarse words echoed in the silent street.

“My what?”

“Your taxes, newcomer. Twenty a fortnight.” Another man's voice, similar to the first's. Draconian and ill-tempered.

Only the water babbled in response. Oleander’s heart hammered in her ears, and the satchel slung over her shoulder weighed heavy with her measly fifteen coins. Every merchant in the district knew this script a hundred times over.

They all remembered the first time it happened to them, when they ran or hid and paid the price. With neither the protection of a more prosperous district or the teeth of a poorer one, the Rathore twins got to do as they liked. And what they liked was extortion—useless, meaningless bullying. They didn't need the money, their family mansion could be seen from half the district. They were spoiled rotten, with nothing better to amuse themselves.

Oleander stared into the remnants of Bruno’s fire, the heat filling her lungs with each deep breath. Her appetite even for rosemary bread was gone. What would Asra do?

That was an easy question. What he always did—run. Run and laugh, using magic to slam doors shut behind them and taking her hand and joking like they weren't running for all they had. They’d run until they found a nice alcove or roof or made it back to the shop, Asra eating a muffin while the brothers banged on the shutters. Master Asra never seemed bothered, but the fact they were running never left Oleander’s mind. It sunk to the bottom of her stomach like a stone after they were safely tucked away inside their home, no matter how much he managed to find other things to discuss.

And here was a new victim, offered up on a silver platter to the brothers because...because running was easier? Or because Bruno was willing to shield her?

In the glowing embers, a vision appeared before her eyes. The new shopkeep, bloody and battered. Pain. Anger. Looking out into a sea full of faces all downcast, not watching for their own safety. Not helping. The argument was escalating now, and even behind Bruno the sounds of shattering glass made her flinch. They were breaking the beautiful vases, all the swirling greens and golds crushed into the dirt or being carried away by the canals. The stars would make it true. Unless she stopped it, it would only get worse.

_Why?_

_Why wasn't she doing anything?_

Oleander slipped past Bruno. His massive fists shook at his sides in barely contained rage, but Safiya and Harth reflected in his eyes. He couldn't put them in danger. Not as things were now. She stepped into the sun, feeling the magic around her and picturing the booth how it once was. Three rows of vases, trinkets and odds and ends and that strange case in the corner. Now only a sea of shards.

The shopkeep was red in the face, a stark contrast to her midnight blue robes. She screamed and yelled and cursed them in a language Oleander didn't know, all to no avail. The brothers were both intimidating in stature, thin but leering like vultures.

Oleander fought the fear rising in her throat.  _'Today I saw my first fox cub. The sun was low in the sky, and Asra smiled like he was meeting an old friend.'_ The words brought the memory back; the amusement that overtook her master's face as he leaned close, whispering for her to look to her right. Knowing her surprise and receiving joy from it. Deep warmth.  _You can do it._

Oleander raised her hand, whispering under her breath and focusing. Her magic answered, twitching up her wrist but cooperating. Shimmering slightly, a new vase appeared behind the shopkeep. One of the brothers, raising his arm to crush it, was met with a chevroned cobra rising from inside. To Oleander’s relief neither of the twins were an expert on the creatures, and the ruse sent them both skittering across the street.

Illusions were one of her newest tricks—one of the disciplines she had picked up from the tomes she excavated while her master was away on his trips. It didn't look exactly like the real thing, as she had only seen them in passing and it was hard to keep the image in her mind. Not to mention thoughts of Faust easily overtook thoughts of snakes. Faust was  _not_ frightening.

The crowd parted to avoid being the Rathore's next target and the elder tripped all the way to the booths on the other side. Right into her.

_“You!”_  he spit. Oleander cursed herself for not expecting such a thing. His lips curled into a snarl and it was obvious she and Asra retained their reputation. It was hard to chase someone down so many alleys without remembering them. They were always the troublemakers the twins couldn't catch. They couldn't  _afford_ to be caught. “It's gone!” the youngest proclaimed, staring dumbfounded at the vase. “It disappeared!”

She refused to waver—in her fear, the illusion had faded. “Witch,” the eldest snarled, taking a step forward. He didn't know what she did but he knew it was her fault. “Where's our money?”

Oleander could almost feel the phantom of Asra’s hand in hers tugging her away, whispering for her to run. The remnants of his magic clinging to his necklace weakly rebelled, but her vision of violence was physically sickening. Oleander was tired of running.

She dug her heels in, hoping desperately to appear larger than she was. “No one here owes you anything.”

“Spirited today, are we? We’ll see how that changes when you realize your little master isn't here to help you.” Oleander found herself shrinking, eyes matching his but taking a step back for every one he took forward. Her bag was stuffed with remedies and yet she stood nose to nose with such a brute, unable to think of a single way to defend herself. It was never something she had considered in her training with Asra and her heart beat played a melody with the rushing of the water below them.

The glitter of the palace gates flashed in her mind.  _That was it!_

“You will do no such thing. I am on my way to see the Countess herself this morning,” she bit back, finding her voice.

Not even the Rathores could sniff at the mention of the Countess, who had wealth and power they could only dream of. Their exploits to gain entry to the palace were the constant talk of the district, and each and every time they had been rebuffed before they even got to the gate. Half of Vesuvia snickered.

“This one thinks she's clever, brother,” the younger sneered, coming to stand abreast of his twin, his hard eyes and sharp nose an almost replica of his kin. “Gets it from the rat, no doubt. Two witches, one stone?” She was yanked up by the collar, only the heel of her boots keeping her on the ground.

“Curs!” A flash of color exploded against the younger’s face and Oleander kneed him in the gut, shocking herself as equally as the rest of the street. Stumbling backwards, he crashed into the mysterious shopkeep’s booth, but not before she snatched her last real vase off of it and cradled it triumphantly in her arms. A wave of relief washed over Oleander, and she looked at her feet to see an exotic looking red fruit splattered among the vase remnants.

The colors swirled together again, no longer fragments of something ruined but things unto themselves. Water, plants, something she so desperately wished she could hold onto. In a breath it vanished.

She had never felt a memory so frustratingly alive before, so melodious with her magic and vibrant in hue. She picked up the fruit, examining it. There was a reason it struck her as strange. Pomegranates were hopelessly expensive, and there were few Vesuvians who had the money for such a palate.

Oleander looked up, searching the crowd and finding a stout woman beside the shopkeep, looking aghast at the whole ordeal. She held a basket of pomegranates at her side, her bright red hair tied up simply and her linen garments speaking of someone who did not have those means. A servant, then. They locked eyes.

“Lying witch!” Instead of helping her, Oleander’s mention of the Countess only seemed to strike a nerve, and as soon as the brother was back on his feet he was closing the distance between them. It was not the robed shopkeep who stood in his way. It was the servant.

“The Countess is having company today, and I'll be sure to inform her of your behavior once I can escort my guest,” she turned and smiled ingratiatingly at Oleander, “to the palace. If you have an issue, bring it up in a letter. Until then, I would recommend taking  _the witch’s_ advice. My lady does not take kindly to waste,” she said, gently taking the crushed pomegranate from Oleander’s hand and casting a sidelong accusing glare at the twins, smiling but her voice laced with venom. “And even less so to extortion.”

Then, simply, the red-haired maid hooked her arm through Oleander’s like they were old friends and led her away. She tugged her along, and Oleander was only able to cast a glance over her shoulder at the mysterious shopkeep before she was gone, lost behind the countenances of Vesuvia’s early risers.

Once they were safely tucked inside a side street, the servant abruptly rounded on her, raking starkly blue eyes over her face. “Are you okay? Why those—they have no right! Her ladyship would  _eat them alive_!” She talked quickly, continuing on her vent while an angry flush overtook her soft features.

Oleander blinked down at her small rescuer, one question coming to mind firstly. “How do you know who I am?”

It was her new friend’s turn to look owlish. “I...I have no idea who you are.”

A moment of embarrassed silence passed between them. “You don't know I'm invited to the palace this morning?”

“You're really our guest today?!” The servant started, stepping closer with excitement overtaking her irritation. “Oh I'm so sorry! I thought you were just lying to get those jerks away from you! My name is Portia, it's an honor to meet milady’s guest early.” She took Oleander’s hand before she could even offer her name in kind, and it was impossible not be swept up in her warmth.

“I'm Oleander, master Asra’s apprentice.” There was a flash of recognition in her eyes and Oleander was certain Portia was going to start chatting excitedly about her master, but instead as they continued along towards the palace she found herself answering question after question about her “famous” tarot abilities. It was not yet noon and yet the day managed to be one of the most baffling within memory...And the most thrilling.

The walk to the palace—seeming initially arduous—turned into a journey in and of itself. Portia spoke at length about her life in the palace, cooing about the Countess and her virtues. The picture she painted spoke of the same woman Oleander had met, elegant and well aware of her power. Alluring in her confidence at yet intimidating by the same measure. They broke Oleander’s rosemary loaf as they traveled, passing cooling handfuls between them.

“I've only worked there for—thank you—a year,” Portia was reminiscent of a happy chipmunk as she chewed, effortlessly weaving between the patches of shade in the streets the colorful blanket canopies provided. All of her time visiting Bruno had proved to leave Oleander with freckles on her cheeks, but Portia’s happily spilled past the end of her puffy white sleeves and with her job in the palace it was obvious as to why.

She proudly displayed the woven basket that swung with each step, explaining what she had already collected. “All things only I know where to get—at least for a fair price.” She grinned. “The Countess entrusts me with fetching some of her favorite things. Pomegranates, Prakran mint, wine. She sends me out on occasion.”

Just a hair taller than most of the crowd, Oleander found herself caught up people watching. It was an old habit. Long before she worked up the courage to talk to any neighbors—before she could even recall speaking—she would sit up on catwalks with the birds and stare down into the bustling crowd below. A raucous caw drew her attention, and suddenly Portia’s words were gone.

A familiar face. An  _all-too familiar_  face. There, towering over the crowd with wine colored hair and the squeaking leather gloves so carefully imprinted in her mind. A wanted fugitive in broad daylight.

The raven caused the doctor to turn and those dark eyes met hers as if they had never left them, burning as they did when he was close enough to touch. What to do? Scream? That felt dramatic. Run?  _To or away?_  Instead she stared just as he did, lips half parted in words that wouldn't come out.

A thud accompanied the shove that sent Oleander onto the dirt, and Portia followed her on her tumble. She apologized profusely, helping her back to her feet in the crowd. “That cart came out of nowhere! They should really be more careful—" Getting her bearings in the ever-moving crowd, Oleander knew Julian was gone. She bit her lip, staring once again at a sea of unknown faces.

“You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.” Portia looked up at her with wide eyes, like she would almost believe her if she said she had.

Oleander smiled, sweat trickling down the base of her neck. She and the doctor were connected by fate. There would be no avoiding it now. “Perfectly fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :) To make up for the wait this chapter was massive and I brought a lot of new ideas to it. I'm really curious to hear your opinions on them! Favorite new concept? Concerns? Plot ideas?
> 
> Throw me a penny for your thoughts! :D It's the best way to let me know what you'd like to see out of this fic and is the biggest motivator as an author. I love to know I'm not the only one on the crazy train. ;)


	5. Page of Swords

The dining hall was so extravagant it was impossible to decide where to look. The servants lined up in neat rows, all smiles and excited whispers? The quintet nestled in the corner, playing as if they were fully engulfed in their own world? The shining plates and silverware that were likely costlier than the shop? The Countess? She stared down from the head of the table, not a hair out of place but with the miasma Oleander so dreaded clinging to her mysteriously absent. That was almost more concerning.

“Ah, Oleander, how punctual of you.” The Countess accepted a glass of wine offered to her by a servant into her slender fingers, taking a sip and setting it aside. “Please, do take a seat. Portia?”

“Certainly, milady!” Portia sprung to life, pulling out the seat across from the Countess. Oleander sat in it, trying to catch Portia’s eyes. _Don't leave me._

“Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“I believe that will be it, Portia. Thank you.” Portia’s youthful smile didn't falter, but a gentle hand rested on Oleander’s shoulder. “Enjoy your meal.” With a bow, she slipped away between the crowd of servants. Was it the intense gaze of the Countess that intimidated her? Or the fear of whatever draped over her shoulders like a stole suddenly springing to life and hiding? 

“Have you ever attended our Masquerade?” The sliest of smiles perched on Countess Nadia's lips, and Oleander had to dampen the images that immediately danced behind her eyes. Admittedly many a lonely day had passed with it on her mind.

The Masquerade was one of the things Asra avoided discussing while everyone else burst with stories of their fondest days there, making it a sore subject between the master and apprentice. Many a journal entry began something along the lines of _‘Questioned Master Asra about the Masquerade again. It sounds like a dream, dancing in the palace, hidden by a mask and meeting but knowing it was Asra by the way he moved. His gentle hands, his fondness of adding unnecessary twirls...I'm quite confident I would know him in an instant. But he continues to avoid my questions, so I'm stuck only with Bruno and his son’s tales. Additionally, if he ever reads this I'm doomed. That would be my luck.’_ Oleander did her best to return the smile, reminding herself that the malevolence plaguing the Countess was gone. Suspiciously. “I’ve never had the good fortune.”

Was there a kind way to tell a ruler they were being followed by something evil?

“I'm sure you’ve heard plenty tales from it; the festival on the Count’s birthday every year until his murder. Raucous, drunken, fanatical…” The Countess trailed off, eyes clouding over, until her gaze traced up the wall beside them. The massive painting weighing heavily over the whole room. “...fun. One of the Count’s specialties. It’s unfortunate you were never able to bear witness to it.” Fun? Yes, that did seem to be the consensus. Fine food, fine wine, dancing...the tune the quintet played almost felt familiar.

Following the Countess’ gaze was inevitable, and soon Oleander too was lost searching the face of the goat seated at the head of the table, strikingly a visage of the Count even without his distinctive features. It was the eyes…”Lovely red.” It was as if her mouth had moved of her own accord, and Countess Nadia eyed the oil painting in turn, “Yes, it was Lucio’s favorite. He was quite fond of commissioning portraits of himself. What do you think of it?” 

She was being laughed at, but the Countess wasn’t even smiling; the only sound came from the clatter of plates as servants rushed to serve them and the waltz that drawled from the quintet. It was that presence again, echoing in some empty corner only she could hear. Somewhere between the here and there. She swallowed hard, a sudden flash of anger rising in her gut. _No._ Those words hadn't been hers.

She forced out a smile, “I think it's unequivocally one of the ugliest things I've ever seen.” Spiteful, yes, but true. She had worked far too hard to have her voice commandeered by someone else. The Countess barked out a laugh, quickly restraining herself and muffling it behind her hand. Oleander was shocked, but found her nervous smile mirroring the Countess'.

“‘Unequivocally one of the ugliest things I've ever seen’?” Countess Nadia's eyes shined with mirth, and the feeling of being mocked crumpled and receded, slinking away until it disappeared entirely. Resentful. Angry. Weak. The same yipping dog that had nipped at her earlier. It had returned.

The food placed in front of her suddenly wasn't as enticing. As if echoing her thoughts, Countess Nadia replied, “Yes, it's quite the eyesore, isn't it? I find it ruins my appetite sometimes.”

Her kindness threw Oleander’s unease into feeling truly sick. The stars had ensnared them both. She couldn't let this thing grow; couldn't let it do more damage to the Countess just because that was easier. “May I continue my frankness, then, Countess?”

Nadia paused cutting into her steak, appraising carefully. “Of course.”

The words came tumbling out tactlessly. “Forgive me, but I've been withholding something from you. When you came to visit me at my shop, you were not alone. There was something with you. It's small, but...it scares me, Countess. It's here now, and it's not the arcana.” She paused entirely, and Oleander waited to hear hell for not saying something earlier.

“You mean you sense something magic? Is it here, now?” Oleander swallowed and nodded, watching as Nadia’s eyes roamed the dining hall in hopes of seeing something.

“And yet you still came. How interesting...” Countess Nadia rose suddenly, a bitter smile twisting her lips. “Well, witch Oleander, I have been withholding something myself. The reason you’ve been summoned here today is because of the murder of my husband three years ago. I’d like for you to find his killer and bring him to justice. We will have the Masquerade once again, and he'll be hung for the jubilation of the crowd. So the city can rest easy once again."

Words almost failed entirely. _No, no, no._ A surge of panic seized her chest at how easily the doctor had appeared at her door. How this was where the stars were leading her. Dragging, really. "You mean-"

"Yes, my husband's trusted physician Julian Devorak. I am willing to put faith in your abilities, and if what you say is true you may very well be the one who can alleviate me of two problems at once."

A plate shattered and Oleander jumped, meeting Portia's eyes and seeing the same desperate look she had given earlier. The Countess addressed Portia and she rambled an apology, leaving the witch only to look on and wonder why she had suddenly turned so ghostly pale. Countess Nadia returned to the matter at hand, cutting gaze returning softer than when they had first met. "Do you still accept my offer? Knowing there's some specter here and a murderer out there? If you're brave enough to come here, then surely you're brave enough to stay?"

If she hadn't known better, she would have said the Countess was almost teasing her. Oleander nodded resolutely, remembering her promise to herself. She would prove to herself and to master Asra that she had been worth helping. Worth every day spent letting her obsessively write down all she had learned, worth all the words he had to teach and the panic he had to soothe. Worth standing by his side. “I'm beginning to believe in you, apprentice Oleander. Perhaps the rumors of you surpassing the talents of your master are true.”

It felt like hours until the blush left her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts are always appreciated, and thank you for all the kind comments so far! :)

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of canon dialogue gets peppered throughout and this fic will follow canon for all that lovely fluff and angst, but as we go on I have original plot lines up my sleeve and I'm hoping it will turn out to be a unique experience. Let's just hope canon doesn't Joss me too hard lol.
> 
> Thanks for all kudos and feedback! <3


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